


Head Under Water

by seamanthedog



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 21:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15849534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seamanthedog/pseuds/seamanthedog
Summary: It is always floating or drowning for Seunghyun. Sometimes he likes the drowning more. But he realizes floating can feel a lot like drowning.He's not dead just floating.





	Head Under Water

**Author's Note:**

> I'm moving all my fic over from lj/aff, so these are all old stories written pre-2015. 
> 
> Written for Bigbang ficfests [here.](https://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/302610/bigbangficfests-2012-christmas-ficmix-posting-bigbang-gri-gtop-daeri-bigbangficfests) 
> 
> All the italicized dialogue means it was taken directly from the original fic.
> 
> Remixee author: livensweetlife  
> Title of work you remixed: what you see, what I see  
> Link to work you remixed: [here.](https://shuffleadream.livejournal.com/1444.html) 

One, two―breath in.

Three, four―breath out.  
  
Seunghyun tries really hard to remember what comes after four―but somewhere between Jiyong’s lips on his, Jiyong’s fingers digging into his side, Jiyong’s breath, and Jiyong’s hair, and Jiyong everywhere―in his pours, his fingers, his eyes, in crevices so far down within Seunghyun he didn’t know they existed―he forgets how to count.  
  
Another “Fuck you!” rains down on his ears and the slam of the door rattles one of the few figurines he keeps propped on his shelves. He doesn't bother to soothe Jiyong’s anger. It comes and goes much like the affection. A few hours later it doesn’t matter anyway, Jiyong slinks over quiet, almost repentant,  _almost_ , and whispers soft, “Please, I need you’s” against his lips. It is always floating or drowning for Seunghyun. Sometimes he likes the drowning more. But he realizes floating can feel a lot like drowning. 

  
  
****

  
Smoke curls upward to mix with the bright lights and noises from the street below. It is always risky to smoke out in the open like this, but Seunghyun doesn’t care anymore. He hears the sliding glass door open and half-turns. It’s Jiyong. It is always Jiyong. Not showing acknowledgement that Jiyong is deigning to grace him with his presence usually results in minutes or hours of sulking. Right as he thinks it, Jiyong sidles up to him. His body angling toward him but facing in a way to show that he notices Seunghyun, but never half as much as Seunghyun notices him.  
  
He flicks his cigarette butt to the ground and smashes it beneath old worn out practice sneakers. His eyes flicker to the side, quickly glancing away as they meet Jiyong’s own. It's like his first high school crush―on the pretty, skinny, talented girl who sat two rows up in the first desk―except this time it’s on a pretty, skinny, talented boy (who also ends up being a malicious, teasing, narcissist).  
  
“I’m going to Japan tomorrow.” Finally, _finally_ , Seunghyun looks toward him and Jiyong doesn’t look away. He’s not surprised. Jiyong’s life revolved around developing his first solo album. His minutes were carefully dissected into new melodies and lyrics, the sound booth, cigarette breaks, eating if possible, sleeping never, and seconds of kisses and curses―sometimes at him or for him―and never time for this thing of theirs.  
  
Seunghyun only nods and says, “Okay.” Jiyong would do what he wanted. He always did. And with that he turns to leave. “And you shouldn’t smoke out here during the day. We don’t want fans up in arms about this and have antis causing scandals right now.” Of course Jiyong has the last word. Seunghyun also hears the implied “I” in his statement. It is always about Jiyong anyway.   
  
****  
  
During the interim of Jiyong in Japan, Seunghyun feels like he can breathe again. But it's also the same as before. He still feels that constricting in his chest every time his thoughts wander toward what Jiyong is doing. He usually finds some way to drown it out with alcohol or work. And he doesn’t expect any texts or calls—he doesn’t receive any—and it doesn’t bother Seunghyun, it doesn’t, really. Because he works the same, talks the same, breathes the same without Jiyong. It feels freeing, like he can live without this crippling sensation that seems to weigh on his body whenever Jiyong’s around.

 

He tells himself these things late at night when his phone lays flung across his bed and he has himself folded into an “accent chair.” The back is too straight and he feels the muscles in his lower back ache from sitting in it for more than an hour. It’s a deep red and matches the room perfectly. He didn’t pick it out. He also hadn’t picked out the four poster king sized bed or the Cuban mahogany matching dressers and vanity—he had never used the vanity and the wood was expensive enough to feed a family for a few months—he realizes that he’s sitting in his room but it isn’t really  _his_. 

 

And the ache in his chest begins again or maybe it hasn’t really ever left. He lifts his bottle of Dom Perignon and finds it empty. It feels like he hadn’t even started it.

 

Now, Choi Seunghyun would like others to view him as tough, handsome, mysterious; with people having a sense of awe and wonder whenever they glanced at him. He’s not really any of those things however, not when he’s alone curled into a chair too small for him but the perfect size for someone else who’s never even sat in it, half-way to drunk, with tears streaming down his face. He feels pathetic. He  _is_  pathetic.

 

Jiyong swims across the surface of deep self-loathing that’s clouding his mind and he takes a staggering breath; it’s deep and rocks his body. He wants to say he’s relaxing as he takes more mouthfuls of air but he isn’t. His palms press against his eyelids and he feels wetness. The gulping for air continues and he hears a staggering sound escape his throat.

 

With effort, he wipes away the tears and clenches his jaw shut to stop the sobs and texts Jiyong first (like always). He falls asleep, after what seems like hours of trying to find what little sense of dignity he has left, in the chair with the phone in his hand, and wakes up to a sore neck and no reply (like always). He’s drowning again but he’d rather drown with Jiyong than float without him.

  
  
****  
  
Jiyong comes back and his album is released. His hair is dyed platinum blonde, but it's all the same to Seunghyun when he finds his fingers pulling on it, pulling him closer. He finds Jiyong still writhes against him, their skins still slide easily against each other’s, and the moans of more, more, _more_ have Seunghyun breaking down―to please, to give, to fulfill all Jiyong’s wants and needs. And he gives until there’s nothing left to give   
  
By the end of it, when Jiyong’s tears pour past bloodshot eyes and into the burgundy hue of a comforter he picked out, not even Seunghyun can give him enough of what he wants. If Seunghyun even knew what to give in the first place. He wonders how long he can hold his breath underwater. 

 

****

 

Hidden amidst Jiyong’s plagiarism scandals, celebration parties, and bouts of depression, Seunghyun finds the girlfriend. Tall and lanky with eyes as smoky as his, she’s a supermodel, she’s foreign, and she doesn’t alternate between hating Jiyong and loving Jiyong. She is there though, and very, very real.

 

“Kiko Mizuhara? Hyung get me some of her friend’s numbers!” Seungri’s eyes light up at the thought of supermodels gracing his phone and Seunghyun is doing everything in his power not to throw his glass of champagne to the floor at Jiyong’s feet.

 

“Seungri, do you honestly think I would do that?” Jiyong’s light-hearted and grinning, his eyes looking at Seungri with chastising amusement. They never once glance over to Seunghyun, who stands farther back from the group away from the swarming bodies trying to congratulate Jiyong on his success. It’s just as well. He can stand in the back away from the smiles and laughter and crumble in on himself without feeling guilty.

 

 

He can’t be weak for long though. People come up to him and he’s smiling once more, drinking and smiling, smiling and drinking. The night goes like this and Jiyong’s gummy smile and sparkling eyes burn into his retinas. When he returns home, he plays film in his mind of Jiyong’s panting and clawing, and body rocking with another pale skinned figure with hair as black as the backs of his eyelids.

 

His days are normal. Everything is normal. He attends Bigbang activities, prepares for the filming of his drama, smiles and laughs at the right times, and he interacts with Jiyong like he normally does. But his insides are burning. He’s being burned alive and he wonders if the burning of his organs smell as rancid as they taste on the tip of his tongue.

 

His nights, however, are spent replaying images of limbs upon limbs and tattoos he used to float between, being scarred with different marks not made by him. He wishes he could gouge out his eyeballs and feed them to crows or better yet pulverize his brain into nothingness.

 

Instead, he submerges himself in bath water and stays under until his lungs are on fire. He comes up gasping for air and choking on water.

 

 

****

 

It’s not even a thought when he finally has Jiyong alone—his fingers wrap around a neck weak enough to break—and he’s yelling accusations because it hurts, it hurts,  _“Fuck you! Why are you doing this Ji!?”_   

 

Even to himself he sounds pitiful. But he can’t stop the raw quality of his emotions. He’s immersed himself silently in them for too long and his body aches from the strain of drowning for Jiyong.

 

His grip tightens because he wants to see Jiyong fight for air, fight for something Seunghyun’s given to him, and Jiyong’s hands are weak as they tug on his arms. But Seunghyun sags into himself, releasing Jiyong, and glares accusatory eyes at him, full with as much heartbreak, grief, and vulnerability as he’s given to Jiyong this whole time. He’s an open, beating, bleeding heart and he just wants Jiyong to  _see_  him.

 

_"What are you talking about? What we had meant nothing, okay? You're a fool for pursuing me, when you know perfectly well that it couldn't become—"_ And it burns. It burns hot like a branding iron straight to his open chest. Jiyong’s eyes are cold and merciless when he glances over at him.

 

It’s a reflex, his hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist to slam against Jiyong’s cheek. His hand throbs and so does everything else when he watches Jiyong reel back, his eyes fluttering and face a mask of shock, he doesn’t fall though, instead he’s careening into the wall and standing there, his nostrils flaring and eyes sharp with anger.

 

He doesn’t let Jiyong speak though, the words bubbling forth and spilling out, scalding his tongue on release,  _"You bastard don't try and pretend to be the victim here. I know you led me on, know you had more in mind all those nights. You're Jiyong, goddamn it, our Jiyong, you're too romantic to give yourself out just for pleasure. What, six years now and you think I don't know you? And you're a liar for proclaiming that what we had was nothing, when in fact it was everything-"_

 

And, fuck,  _it hurts_ , it blinds him and sends tears full of heartache and loathing down his face. He looks weak, he is weak but he cries from the injustice of it all. Jiyong just looks back at him, blood smeared on his lip and eyes showing nothing but self-disgust and accusations he can’t read, and remains silent. It stings like a slap. He wants to take it back, wants to wrap Jiyong in his arms, have him fold into his body and slip past his senses like every other night, he almost reaches for him. Almost.

 

But he doesn’t and Jiyong doesn’t come to him. He watches Jiyong walk away. Past the door and far, far away. When he’s gone, Seunghyun takes a shaky breath. Tears still sting his eyes and he wipes them away with the back of bruised knuckles.

 

He’s floating again. But floating feels a lot like dying.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes your writing doesn't age well, but it's still interesting to see what I've done. This was written in 2012.


End file.
